Gemotions

The review sat on the pristine white counter, a stark black smudge on the otherwise spotless surface. Chef Marco stared at it, the words blurring around the edges, his vision swimming. He slammed his fist down, the force making the delicate porcelain teacups rattle. He should have known. That pompous ass from the Times, always looking for a reason to tear someone down.

His jaw clenched, a muscle jumping in his cheek. He snatched the paper up, crumpling it in his grip. The words, the scathing descriptions, the criticisms of his perfectly crafted sauce – all of it burned. He could feel heat rising in his chest, a fiery core that threatened to explode.

"Get out," he barked at the sous chef who dared to approach, his voice tight and strained. The poor kid scrambled back, face pale. Marco turned and stomped into the walk-in, the cold air doing little to quell the internal inferno.